Chapter 5 - THE SECRET MY MOTHER BURIED
The next morning, my mother called me.
Not my father.
Not Rosalie.
My mother.
“Fiona,” she said.
Her voice sounded different.
“What?”
“I need to see you.”
“Why?”
“Alone.”
I looked at Alexander.
He was sitting across from me at the breakfast table.
I didn't like the sound of her voice.
“Where?”
“The old house.”
I hadn't been there in years.
The Prescott family home sat twenty miles outside the city.
It was where I had grown up.
Where Rosalie and I had shared a bedroom.
Where my father had held birthday parties.
Where my mother had spent countless evenings cooking dinners that everyone pretended to enjoy.
It was also where I had learned to stay quiet.
I arrived at eleven.
My mother opened the door.
She looked exhausted.
No makeup.
No jewelry.
Her hair loosely tied back.
For the first time, she looked like a woman instead of Mrs. Jonathan Prescott.
She hugged me.
I didn't hug her back immediately.
Then I did.
Because despite everything, she was still my mother.
We sat in the kitchen.
She placed an old wooden box on the table.
I recognized it.
It had always been in her closet.
“What is that?”
“Something I should have given you years ago.”
She opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A hospital bracelet.
And a newspaper clipping.
I picked up the first photograph.
It showed my mother holding a newborn baby.
My mother looked younger.
She was smiling.
But the baby wasn't me.
I looked at her.
“Who is that?”
She began crying.
“Your brother.”
I froze.
“I don't have a brother.”
“You did.”
My hands went cold.
“What happened?”
“He died.”
“When?”
“Three days after he was born.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“Your father didn't want you to know.”
“Why?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because of what happened afterward.”
I picked up the newspaper clipping.
The headline was twenty-five years old.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN ACCUSED OF FRAUD AFTER INFANT CHARITY FUNDS DISAPPEAR
I read the article.
My father's name appeared.
Jonathan Prescott.
My heart stopped.
“What is this?”
My mother looked away.
“Your father was accused of stealing money from a medical charity.”
“Was he convicted?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone else took responsibility.”
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
“Mom.”
Her hands trembled.
“Your father didn't steal the money.”
I frowned.
“Then who did?”
She looked at me.
“I did.”
I stared.
“You?”
“I was desperate.”
“For what?”
“Your brother needed experimental treatment.”
She wiped her tears.
“The hospital told us the treatment wasn't covered.”
“How much?”
“Everything we had.”
I looked at the papers.
“So you took charity money?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I borrowed it.”
“Without permission.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“The treatment failed.”
Her voice broke.
“Your brother died.”
I reached across the table.
She continued.
“Your father discovered what I had done.”
“What did he do?”
“He covered it up.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because he loved me.”
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
My father had spent my entire life acting like he cared only about himself.
But apparently, there had been one person he had protected.
My mother.
“Then why did you say some things were better left buried?”
She looked at me.
“Because the charity money was connected to someone else.”
“Who?”
My mother hesitated.
Then whispered a name.
“Eleanor Reed.”
I stopped breathing.
Alexander's mother.
“What?”
“She ran the medical foundation.”
I stood.
“Mom.”
“I didn't know at first.”
“What didn't you know?”
“The money I borrowed didn't come from the foundation.”
She pointed to the papers.
“It came from a private account.”
“Whose?”
She looked at me.
“Your father's.”
My mind raced.
“You said the charity money—”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because your father had been laundering money through the foundation.”
The room spun.
My father hadn't been protecting her.
He had been using the scandal to hide something much larger.
My mother's unauthorized withdrawal had become the perfect cover.
She took the blame.
He remained clean.
Then the foundation collapsed.
Eleanor Reed lost everything.
Her family suffered.
And years later, her son Alexander built his company.
I sat down slowly.
“Did Alexander know?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you keep this from him?”
“Because your father threatened me.”
“With what?”
“Divorce.”
I stared.
“That's all?”
She shook her head.
“He said he would make sure you and Rosalie never saw me again.”
I closed my eyes.
My mother had been trapped.
But she had also chosen silence.
Both things could be true.
“Mom.”
She looked at me.
“Why tell me now?”
She reached into the box.
There was another envelope.
“This arrived six months ago.”
I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I read the first line.
Jonathan Prescott did not act alone.
I looked at my mother.
“Who wrote this?”
“I don't know.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was left at the house.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She began crying.
“Because I was afraid.”
I stared at the letter.
At the bottom was a name.
Evelyn Mercer.
Daniel's mother.
My blood ran cold.
“Daniel's mother?”
My mother nodded.
“She worked with your father.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
I stood.
“Then we're going to find out.”
When I left the house, Alexander was waiting outside.
He hadn't come inside.
He had promised.
I walked toward him.
He studied my face.
“What happened?”
I handed him the letter.
He read it.
His expression changed.
“Evelyn Mercer.”
“Yes.”
“Daniel's mother.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the road.
“She's been dead for four years.”
I froze.
“What?”
“She died of cancer.”
“Then how did she write this six months ago?”
Alexander looked at the letter again.
“She didn't.”
I swallowed.
“Someone is using her name.”
“Exactly.”
We returned home.
By evening, Alexander's investigators had found something.
The letter had been printed on paper manufactured only by one company.
The envelope had been purchased locally.
The fingerprints were inconclusive.
But there was one thing.
A security camera.
Someone had delivered the letter to my mother's house six months ago.
A man.
Tall.
Wearing a baseball cap.
His face was hidden.
But he had one distinctive feature.
A silver ring.
Alexander stared at the image.
“I know that ring.”
I looked at him.
“Who?”
He zoomed in.
The ring had an unusual black stone.
“My father owned one.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your father?”
Alexander nodded slowly.
“He died twelve years ago.”
“Then who is wearing it?”
Alexander didn't answer.
He picked up his phone.
Called someone.
“Find out whether my father's personal effects were ever inventoried.”
He hung up.
I stared at him.
“What aren't you telling me?”
He looked at me.
“There was a man who worked for my father.”
“Who?”
“His name was Marcus Vale.”
“What happened to him?”
“He disappeared twelve years ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Alexander's expression hardened.
“Because my father believed Marcus had stolen something.”
“What?”
Alexander looked at the letter.
“Records.”
“What records?”
“The original records from the foundation.”
I felt a chill.
“Records proving where the money came from.”
He nodded.
“And proving who really stole it.”
We looked at each other.
May you like
Then Alexander said quietly,
“Someone has been waiting twenty-five years for this secret to come back.”
